


lust and lavender breeze

by charizona



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, F/F, Lapdance, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3797392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’ll have a Shaw-shaped bruise in the morning, she’s sure, but there’s not a single ounce in Root’s body that minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lust and lavender breeze

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading (in advance)! It feels good to write these two after writing so much Martine... Anyway, enjoy :)

 

Root hasn’t been to the subway in weeks.

She hasn’t asked the machine what everyone has been up to, either, preferring the surprise. Mostly, though, she’d stopped checking up on Shaw the moment Shaw had _found out_ and directly put a stop to it.

Root reflects. They’d been standing in the middle of the street talking, of all things, and Root had let it slip that she asked Her about all of them, Shaw especially, and Shaw had stared hard at a security camera and talked to it. There’d been some blushing on Root’s part, some swearing on Shaw’s, but The Machine had refused to tell her anything about Shaw ever since.

So she’d resorted to checking in on them personally, and often without calling first.

It’s what she’s doing now, punching in the code of the abandoned vending machine deep within New York City. The door swings open instead of a mechanical coil twisting, and Root crouches to step through it, closing the entrance behind her.

She catches the timbre of John’s voice as she rounds the corner, but the first words from her lips are “Where’s Shaw?”, which alerts them both to her presence.

And she catches the imperceptible tension in John’s shoulders, but it’s not the kind to warrant immediate danger. Besides, they would have no problem telling her if Shaw was in _danger_. She notices John slip a few papers out of sight, burying them underneath Professor Whistler’s nonsense.

“Working,” Harold answers, squinting at his computers.

“Who’s our damsel in distress,” Root wonders, crossing over to the subway car where Harold and John have a picture of the number taped, “and why is _Shaw_ with her and not tall, dark, and brooding, here?”

She taps the picture, turning back to the two men who look entirely too guilty. Neither of them answer her, and Root looks at the information again, deciding that she’s missed something. She did. “She’s a _stripper?_ ” Her finger pauses on the word; she can barely contain her smile. “So, Sameen’s her, what? Bodyguard? Bartender?”

Their silence is enough.

Oh, it’s so _telling_. Root has her phone out before John is crossing the room, snapping a picture of the address, and she dodges his hands, the smile on her face eternal.

“Ms. Groves,” Harold warns. “Ms. Shaw will not take to you compromising the mission -”

“There is no way I’m missing this,” Root argues, running from the subway before John can stop her. She hears a sigh on her way out, as her heart speeds up. She double-checks the address on her phone and yes, it’s a strip-club. Root has an inkling as to what Sameen’s doing there.

And it’s not serving alcohol.

 

.

 

She was right. She was so right.

Root hangs in the shadows of the strip club, aptly named _Lust_ , and wonders how she’s going to manage getting into the back. She’s already found some pretty heavy heat in the form of huge, armed bodyguards at every door. There are two of them in the back, standing in front of the door that separates the patrons from the women they’ve come to watch.

So Root settles at the bar, which Shaw is decidedly not behind, and orders herself a beer. The girl on the stage isn’t main entertainment, and she isn’t capturing the attention of the audiences as much as she may want to, Root realizes.

“Alright, alright,” a man says on the loudspeaker, and Root turns her attention to the stage. He looks grimy, but his clothes are designer. “We’ve got someone new for you tonight.” Root picks up the native New York accent; she wonders if Shaw has him cased out already. “Give a warm, warm welcome to _Sapphire_!”

It’s the main show, and Root stands, abandoning her drink in favor of attempting to slip into the back and find Shaw. She’s about to, but one glance toward the stage tells her Shaw doesn’t need to be found.

Shaw, she’s practically in nothing, hips bouncing to the rhythm of a song that Root can’t place - not with Sameen dressed like _that_. Root’s eyes follow the curve of Sameen’s thighs, the expanse of her lean stomach, the muscles of her calves. All of her skin, it’s out there for all of these men to see and while there’s a fire burning low in Root’s diaphragm; her cheeks are aflame with jealousy.

Anyone looking past the skimpy clothing - the bra that can hardly even be called a bra - could see that Shaw has absolutely no idea what she’s even doing. She touches the pole maybe once, just to wrap herself around it and spin on the ball of her heel, much to the audience’s pleasure. They love her.

A man beckons Sameen forward, a hundred in his hand, and Root watches with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth as he practically gropes her, shoving the bill underneath the strap and against her skin.

Root notices the tightening of Shaw’s jaw as his hand brushes the curve of her breast. Root notices the twitch of Shaw’s fingers.

Shaking her head, Root sits still in the chair as the song comes to an end. Root pushes her way toward the back room, with one intent and one intent only. She finds one of the bodyguards, smiling as sweetly as she can. He’s huge, more than three times her size in body mass, but she’s almost as tall as him. Smiling, she says, “How much for a dance?”

He looks her up and down. “You offering?”

“No,” she says, biting back the comment on the tip of her tongue, “I want Sapphire.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, chewing on nonexistence, “Sapphire don’t do the honeys.”

Root pulls out her credit card. “Will she do the _honeys_ for extra?”

And that’s how Root ends up in a recliner, on the edge of the seat, waiting for Sameen to show up. It’s customary, she supposes, for these girls to take their own time. Root is paying for it, after all. Glancing around at the men around her, staring at the asses being waved in their faces, Root’s glad she jumped for Shaw when she did. No matter how close she needs to stay to the number, she couldn’t stand it if one of these men touched her.

“Root,” a voice says from behind her, and it’s Shaw, but with more clothing on. Not much more, but she’s not practically naked like before.

“That’s a good look on you, Sameen,” Root murmurs, but her words are lost in the music as Shaw makes her way around the chair to stand in front of her.

“Whatever you just said,” Shaw sighs, looking tired and annoyed, “I’ve decided to forget it and move on if you get up and leave. Right now.”

Root pouts. She’s gotten good at playing this game with Shaw. The push and pull of their dialogue has become habit, almost, and she’s beginning to enjoy it. “It’s too bad that I paid for a lap dance. If I don’t get what I want, I might just have to complain to your boss.”

Shaw looks away, her jaw strung tight, and Root follows her gaze to a few people over. She recognizes a dancer as the number, and finally, Shaw nods. “Alright,” she says, almost like she’s convincing herself.

When she looks at Root, there’s something entirely different in her eyes.

She sets a knee on the recliner and Root smells lavender, surely a product of that back room. Shaw must’ve borrowed it. Leaning her weight onto the knee, Shaw towers over Root, and Root sees the specs of glitter in the valley between her breasts, has to resist the urge to lean forward. “You wanted this,” Shaw reminds her, as Root presses her open palms into the armrests. “Also,” Shaw adds, her breath hot on Root’s cheek. “No touching.”

Her hair tickles Root’s skin, and this may have been a horrible decision.

Standing up, then, Shaw turns to almost sit on Root’s lap and Root’s mouth goes dry. It’s Shaw who touches her, a hand drifting back and weaving into Root’s hair like she owns it, nails scraping against scalp. Root resists leaning into the touch, resists leaning forward and pressing her lips against the expanse of neck just out of her reach, and, digging her own nails into the armrests of the recliner, she resists _touching_.

The music starts up again, and Shaw’s hands fall into her own hair, tresses vaulting in curly waves down her back. Her hips move with the soft beat. It’s slow this time, different than the song when she was up on the stage, and Root appreciates it that much more. Every once and a while, Shaw glances a few seats over, ever the watchful agent, but Root’s eyes never stray from the curve of her hips. The strap of the g-string that accents the muscles of Shaw’s thigh that much more.

Root flinches when Shaw turns around, settling in her lap. The weight of her rests just above Root’s knees, but Shaw leans in close, her nose bumping into Root’s, and this time, she isn’t looking anywhere else.

“How, um,” Root starts, sure that her hands are going to cramp sometime soon from gripping the armrests, “did you manage to get a headliner after only a few nights of working?”

“I’ve got my ways,” Shaw murmurs, her voice lower than Root’s ever heard it. The music changes and she reaches up to tuck hair behind Root’s ear. Root can’t help but watch when Shaw licks her lips. They’re the only two in the world, but the heat from the club is getting to both of them.

Shaw’s practically grinding on her at this point, hips working in tandem with the beat of a faster song, and Root’s grateful when she pulls away and keeps her distance.

After another song, Root’s mouth is incapable of producing saliva ever again, and Shaw’s relaxed, muscles melting with the music. She reaches forward, ruffles Root’s hair, and says, “Time’s up.”

“Shaw, wait,” Root objects, sticking out a hand to grab Shaw’s wrist. Underneath her fingers, Shaw’s pulse is normal compared to Root’s, going a mile a minute. Shaw looks down at her and Root forgets what she was going to say. “I… Do you need help with the number?”

She gestures her head toward where the number was, and where the number currently isn’t. Shaw notices and curses under her breath. “She could’ve walked out.” She looks conflicted, but Root’s hand on her wrist sticks, grounding her with a decision. “Fine,” she says, after a moment. “I’ll check the back, see if anyone saw her leave. If she’s gone, we’ll go after her, but if she’s still here, you’re leaving.”

Root stands up, then, ignoring the shot of arousal between her legs. “Of course, Sameen,” she says, smiling demurely. “Either way, we both end up back at the station, alone.”

She thinks she sees Shaw roll her eyes before disappearing into the crowd in search of the number. Root brushes herself off, wondering if the glitter will ever vanish completely from her life. She’s searching the people around her next, looking for either the familiar face of Shaw or the number. Neither show up, but after several long minutes, Root’s back at the bar and Shaw joins her.

She’s dressed rather scandalously for New York weather, but the leather jacket covering the low-cut top and the short shorts seems to be enough for her as she tugs on Root’s elbow, leading her out of the club.

Not two blocks from the club, they spot the number. She’s crowded against a wall, a man getting up close and personal, and while Shaw is perfectly capable, Root glances at her anyway, her eyebrow raised in a question.

“What?” Shaw’s glare shines even in the shadows.

“Where are you even hiding your gun?”

Rolling her eyes for the second time that night, Shaw produces a small handgun from her jacket pocket, one that Root hadn’t even been aware that she’d had. Shaw takes the lead, letting out a “hey asshole” and startling the man.

Root’s busy pondering how this qualifies as a premeditated attack while Shaw works. Shaw’s kicks are aimed seamlessly in her shorts, and she gets a good punch to the nose when the guy tries to swing at her. It hits Root just as the answer comes to view anyway, and she’s lucky she hears the foot scrape on pavement behind her, just moments before the click of the gun, because Root’s spinning in place and shooting out a kneecap.

Of course, they’d been planning on attacking for weeks. It wasn’t random.

Shaw comes up beside her, breathing hard, and Root figures the number must’ve ran away. “Good shot,” Shaw comments, her voice light over the groans deep in the night.

Root slips the gun back into her waistband before she’s tugging Shaw into an alley, shoving her into a wall with a hard push. Shaw’s breath vaults from her chest, tickling Root’s lips, and Root waits just a moment, her hands fisted in the leather of Shaw’s jacket.

There’s a fire burning in them both. When Root finally gives in, pressing her lips against Shaw’s, she’s a mess of ashes. Shaw kisses her back with vigor, hungry against her mouth as their lips move in tandem against one another. Root’s heart skips a beat, it seems, when Shaw’s tongue pushes past her lips and into her mouth, licking against her own. Pushing back, Root kisses hard enough for Shaw’s head to fall against stone, a groan crawling its way from her throat.

Root swallows it up, finally letting one hand go. Freed fingers, her hand drifts inside of Shaw’s jacket, traversing the bare skin of her chest and the covered skin, too, palming Shaw’s breast and noticing the lack of bra. She grins and thinks she hears Shaw mutter “shut up”. It’s quickly replaced by a sharp inhale when Root’s thumb runs over a hardened nipple.

“I love how you sound,” Root breathes, taking a moment to stop kissing Shaw, even if it’s the last thing she wants to do.

Shaw doesn’t dignify the comment with a response, choosing instead to attempt to control her breathing.

Bracketing her ribcage, Root’s fingers press into between ribs one-by-one, feeling the warmth of Shaw radiating into her own skin through the thin fabric of the pitiful excuse for a shirt Shaw’s wearing. When she kisses Shaw again, something about the gesture is gentle. Teeth graze her bottom lip and Shaw nips lightly, but Root’s hand drifts down further, coming to rest on Shaw’s hips.

It’s then that Shaw kisses her harder, biting down with enough force to draw blood. Her hands find Root’s waist, encircle and slide into the back pockets of her jeans, and they’re flush together as Root forces a hand down between them.

Shaw’s shorts are denim, too tight for any access, and she struggles with the button with only one hand. She uses her other one, laughing against Shaw’s lips when Shaw intervenes, tearing her out of the way and letting her fly fall wide. She grabs Root’s hand, places it unceremoniously in her own pants, and grips the back of Root’s neck with the other, tugging her in for a taste of rust.

Working on the outside of her underwear, Root realizes that Shaw wants this as much as she does, and perhaps has wanted this all night. The sigh that escapes Shaw’s lips is mellifluous, saccharine to Root’s ears, and even through the thin material of the underwear, she feels how drenched Shaw is, standing on surely shaking thighs.

“Root.” Shaw says her name like a warning, like a request, like she’s everything she needs and nothing she wants, all at once.

Lips fitting against Shaw’s, Root murmurs, “Patience, Sameen,” but goes back on her own words, pushing her fingers where Shaw needs them most. Shaw’s hips jerk, and Root’s fingers encircle Shaw’s clit dangerously, scratching the sensitive area just above it. Shaw wants more, it’s obvious from the way her hips work, but Root merely runs a finger down her labia.

“We’re short on time,” she breathes, as turned on as Shaw feels underneath her fingertips. Shaw’s slick, pliant with her every touch, and Root is ever the puppet master, pulling a very taut string. “If you want this, you’re going to have to ask _nicely_.”

“I’m not fucking -”

And Root’s hand slips away entirely, sliding out of the confines of Shaw’s jeans as if they aren’t just hidden in the shadows for a quick fuck, as if the boys aren’t waiting for their return to the subway, as if Shaw’s legs aren’t shaking.

Root tastes her collarbone instead, a hand gripping steady on Shaw’s hip, and Shaw tastes like sweat, mostly, but Root doesn’t mind. When Shaw groans, Root feels the vibrations deep in her chest, underneath her tongue, and finally, after a long moment, Shaw mutters, “Just fuck me, Root.”

“What’s the magic word?” Root whispers against her clavicle, holding a silent conversation with the bone. Her fingers are already drifting back, knowing that Shaw’s already lost.

Shaw sighs, and Root feels her glance either way down the hallway. “Root, please.”

She doesn’t need to hear more. She stands up, kisses Shaw hard, and pushes a hand between her thighs. She swallows up the surprised breath that makes its way up Shaw’s throat, revelling in the hesitation of Shaw’s kiss when Root pushes two fingers into her without hesitation. She’s ready for it anyway, hips working against Root’s hand with every thrust.

Root’s lips drag across Shaw’s cheek; her face falls into the crook of Shaw’s neck. She’s breathing hard and Shaw’s falling, but Root’s there to catch her.

Root grins against Shaw’s skin when nails rake their way across her back, sure to leave constellations of scratches she’ll make no attempt to hide. She lets the base of her palm brush against Shaw’s engorged clit and Shaw practically moans, but with Shaw, it’s always more of a growl, guttural and territorial in it’s base. Either way, Root curls her fingers and pulls the orgasm from Shaw out with them, Shaw shaking against her.

She’ll have a Shaw-shaped bruise in the morning, she’s sure, but there’s not a single ounce in Root’s body that minds.

When Root steps away from Shaw, Shaw falls a full two inches where Root had been holding her up against the stone. She stares at Root dazedly, the flyaways from her ponytail plastered to her face from exertion.

“My stuff’s still in the back of the club,” Shaw says after a moment, and Root thinks it sounds like an apology. They don’t have time for another round, for her, and Root’s fine with that anyway.

She steps forward, into Shaw’s space, and notices the way Shaw’s breathing picks up. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Root kisses her goodbye, ignoring the way Shaw doesn’t touch her anywhere else besides her lips, and then Root’s walking down the alley and away from Shaw. When she’s out of sight, she leans against the side of a building and breathes deeply, in and out, and thinks about detouring to the nearest bathroom before back to the subway.

“Bye, Root,” Shaw says, coming up behind her. She smirks with a somewhat knowing grin.

And Root has never wanted to be fucked more.

 

 


End file.
